by Susan Rich
Maybe it was the bicycle. The way her hips
rose up and up - as if directed straight to heaven -
Like a Venus. And a banker's daughter - true.
Real original, this girl - a bicycle, a camera,
other newfangled tools. I sent her bolts
of cloth, overalls, and boots - anything to make her squint
her eyes and glance one day towards me - me: Fred
Wiggins of Wiggins bazaar - 123 Commercial Street.
More of a back-up boyfriend, for someone like Myra
her family would say. Everyone knew she was in love
with her own life: bareback rides, opera singing,
and the New York artiste nights. But I expected
to live a little, too. And so if there were men
of Salem, Toppenish, Seattle, lovely and rich -
who snickered at our last-season suits
and sequined gowns, who hinted not infrequently -
that a husband should not be so happy
packing picture frames and mounting
photographs. Christ. They knew nothing.
from Gallery of Postcards and Maps: New and Selected Poems
